


Bright and Broken Go the Seasons

by faerymorstan



Series: Snow Queen 'Verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Estrangement, F/M, M/M, Reconciliation, Relationship Issues, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John leaves what he loves, loves what he leaves behind. </p><p>And loves what new he finds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Behind

**Author's Note:**

> So I've known since before the very, very first 221b of this 'verse that there was a time when John and Sherlock, um, struggled. That the strength of their bond in "The Snow Queen" was hard-earned.
> 
> This is the story of how they earned it.
> 
> I've called it, until just now when AO3 made me choose a title (*mumble grumble TITLES ARE HARD mumble*), "the one nobody is going to like." Sorry guise.
> 
> As of posting the first chapter, there is no Mary. There it going to be Mary. Figure I'd warn you in case that puts you off a fic.
> 
> I think that's about it. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

From the cottage, the riverbank, the forest, John watches spring storms shake the trees, spring calms coax them fragrant. Digs weeds from the roots of the roses.

_Seven years_ , he thinks, the phrase surfacing in glimmers all through the season, a fish caught for a moment in sunlight: _seven years we’ve been here, now_.

Seven years since John and Sherlock--winking, bickering, once coming near blows over a pitch in the floorboards (John threw a hammer that clattered between slats, vanished, never to be found; hours later, laughed as they kissed on the uneven ground)--built their cottage by the River Baker. Set foundation and frame, chimney and shingle, hinge and pane til Sherlock stretched on the bed while John nodded, knocked a fist to fresh-cut wood, said, _That ought to hold_.

It has, so far.

Through clients, through seasons--autumns of smoke and cider, winters of sleeping close, springs of John taking the spade to the garden, summers of Sherlock sweat-soaked and terse _(how am I supposed to think when that damned thing_ , he snapped, waved at the bright window, _never bothers to set_ )--the house has held, and so have they.

But not without wear.

There was new glass for the window shattered when a client’s husband broke in (John knocked him out, grinned a wolfish grin), new boards for the floor burnt when Sherlock spilled acid, new mortar for the fireplace when freezes and thaws left the stones loose and John kicked them ( _you said you’d stopped, Sherlock, you said you were through with the needle_ ), scattered them noisy away.

John’s wished, more than once, that what’s between them could mend so easy as their home.

They try. Apologise with mugs of tea, blossoms, touches, quiet words. Forgive, sometimes after minutes, sometimes after days at Molly’s.

Seven years, though. Seven years of promises broken, fights upon apologies upon fights, and John is--John is tired. Doesn’t feel this spring’s renewal. Tonight there’s a case, a client, a game on, but--.

_I can’t_ , John says as Sherlock beckons from the front door. _My leg_.

Sherlock taps a foot. The evening--chilly, green-smelling--seeps into the cottage. _There’s nothing wrong with your leg_.

_Apart from the fact that it’s been giving out more often, you mean?_

_It wouldn’t, if you would just--let’s go._

John crosses his arms. Has never told Sherlock what happened to his leg, has never wanted to, though Sherlock’s deduced it, more or less. Insisted that if John would just tell him about it ( _clearly it happened when you were at someone’s mercy, John, as your leg fails you more often when you feel powerless, and clearly the circumstances were traumatic, as seven years later you refuse to so much as speak of how it happened, though why you don’t think you can trust me with it, I cannot begin to fathom_ )--but Sherlock is wrong, John’s sure. Sherlock wants the thrill of being told he’s right, nothing more, and John won’t revisit it--any of it--for that. _If I would just what?_

Sherlock shakes his head.

Leaves, alone.

When he comes home with a blackened eye, John aches to mend it, but he can’t bring himself to offer. Sherlock doesn’t ask.

*

A week of Sherlock's silence.

John asks questions ( _any cases I should know about, where do you go walking at night, are the longer days bothering you again_ ) but receives no answer.

Not even violin.

*

Sherlock’s eye’s still sore, faded to a sickly green, as he examines a body (a wash-woman, a picture of health, but dead, _why_ ) at Molly’s cottage.

_Her hands_ , John says. Examines beneath a nail. _Should they be so… swollen?_

To John: _Obviously._ To Molly: _Ignore him. He’s an idiot._

John’s silent for days. Leaves the tea Sherlock brings untouched. Watches Sherlock drink it cold.

_Oh, Sherlock_ , John murmurs, later, when Sherlock, back from his nightly walk, slides into bed, finally sleeps. He’s nude, on his stomach, breath deep and slow; the sunrise lines his back with rose and gold. Makes him look otherworldly, like to vanish at John’s touch.

John felt that way about him, once, but the man John felt that way about, the man John was when he had those feelings--lost to time, never to return. Replaced by a tired healer with a leg that won’t heal and an irritable solver of crimes who for seven years has said _obvious_ and _you’re an idiot_ and _gods’ sake John_ and never, not once, _I love you_.

How do they hold.

There’s a small black feather sweat-stuck to Sherlock’s fist. John slides it free. Brings it to his lips. Hides it beneath his pillow, a talisman against the dark.

*

_A rabbit_ , Sherlock says just after the solstice, sunburnt as he slams the door, _I’ve just spent a week chasing down a bloody rabbit, all because some hack alchemist had nothing better to do than paint it with phosphorus and let it run ‘round at night_. He pulls a box from a shelf, throws himself into his chair, ties a tourniquet, fills a syringe. _A waste, like everything else in this gods-forsaken, sun-blighted excuse for a season_.

John puts down his mug. Feels a twinge in his thigh. Frowns. _You said you were through_.

_And you said you’d stopped gambling_ \--Sherlock flexes his fingers-- _but I see from your boots that you’ve been to the fights. Leave it_.

John swallows. _You were gone_. Doesn’t say: _I was worried. I was alone_.

_Yes, I was gone, and it took you all of a week to fall into old habits_. Sherlock stretches his legs, crosses them at the ankle, lets his head loll back. _Touching, if a shade pathetic_.

A twinge in John’s leg: he stands. _I'll not be abused._

_Please_. Sherlock waves, lazy, dismissive. _You're half a cripple, you're aging, and you've deluded yourself into thinking you're needed. You'll never leave_.

John stares. Breathes hard through his nose. Kicks over the table: the mug shatters, scatters slivers on the floor.

_Gods’ sake, John, sit down. You’re overreacting_ , Sherlock calls as John storms into the bedroom, digs beneath their bed for his army rucksack. Throws into it what he can bear to take with him (nothing Sherlock gave him, nothing they made together), shoulders it, and limps to the front door.  _You’re really leaving_.

Sherlock sounds--surprised, damn him, how can he not have noticed that John is, has been, hurting, has been--.

The afternoon air is still and humid. _You noticed_ , John says. _Clever you_. Doesn’t look back as the screen door bangs shut behind.


	2. Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds work, and an old friend.

South and south and the river shimmers in the summer sun, pulls John through sweltering days and nights as the hills beyond the riverbanks grow steep, stark where pale cliffs break through spare trees. The air feels heavier, smells quicker than it does where home once was.

 _Is_.

He sees ravens in the branches, some days, large and dark and proud. None so keen as his own.

 _Not mine_ , John chides himself, hand on the locket around his neck, on the leather cord. _Not now._

A fortnight’s walk and John is sore and sunburnt and sick at heart. He sleeps three nights in an inn’s smallest room, in the daytime asks his fellow passers-through where he might find work.

 _There’s a town a ways south lost its healer,_ says a ship’s captain. _My command’s bound that way. She’s not pretty, mind, but mend my crew, Doctor Watson, and she’ll see you safely there._

As the river widens, churns, John watches from the deck. Listens to the wind snap sharp in the sails and the water murmur beneath the bow. The ship carries wheat, will bring back spirits and fight the current. Now, though, it flies, swift as the quarter moon waxes to the half and the village ( _this one_ , the captain says, _by the cedar grove_ ) lies quiet beneath stars John can’t believe match the ones at home. They do, though: the Ships, the Hunter, the Blossoms that bring him Molly (he should have stopped, oh, he should have said goodbye), the Alchemist that brings him Sherlock and a fist of pain in his chest.

 _Is Sherlock feeling the same,_ John wonders, _on one of his walks. Looking up to the Rifle._

He’s tempted, that night. To take to the land and run away home.

But he stays. Sleeps on the ship, rocked by the River Baker.

*

Morning and John walks to the town center, asks where the healer stayed. Learns she lived with the law of the place and her ailing babes, so he seeks the law, finds it in a well-kept cedar cabin where a bearded man, who tilts his head to say _go in_ , whittles on the porch.

The head constable’s trim, has dark hair and light brown skin and a smile that drives John’s own name from his mind before he sets his face, resolves to focus. She brings a brisk air, a revolver on one hip, and a cluster of calluses (she keeps in practice; John nods his admiration) on one hand. 

_Sally Donovan,_ she says. Shakes with him. _My babes need care, Doctor Watson. I do the best I can between healers, but that’s not my gift. Tell me how you trained, and where, and how you came to be here._

There’s flint in her eyes. _Good at detail, at reading people,_ Sherlock’s voice supplies, _fierce for her children. Will send you back up the river before sunset if you lie._

John tells the truth. By the time the sun’s high in the cloudless sky, Sally brings him to her home to meet the children ( _we’ll see how you do_ ) and their nurse.

Their nurse….

Her hair is shorter and paler now (maybe washed with lemon juice, the way John’s sister Harriet used to do), and she’s fuller of figure (John catches himself admiring her curves, reluctantly looks away), but John knows his old friend, her quiet competence, all the same: _Alena Gillian Rose Adams,_ John nearly says, nearly grins, _thought you and your ridiculous name were reckless, died with the war,_ but she doesn’t quite shake her head, cuts her gaze to one side, and he holds back. 

She holds out her hand. _Maery Morstan. Nurse to the Donovan babes. Anna’s the elder, Gwenyth the younger. Say hello to Doctor Watson, girls._

The children are five and seven, wiry of frame, curious and bright. Gwenyth talks excitedly of her previous healer all through the exam (a rattle in the lungs: fluid: chronic: can be treated, not cured); Anna (the same, her lungs) blinks at John, silent, something in her gaze recalling Sherlock on a case. He channels for them both, keeping the gunpowder, the tannin in him at bay: honey and eucalyptus, peppermint and elderberry: gentle remedies, gently sent.  

Sally holds both girls close, listens to them breathe and asks them how they feel while John carefully, carefully does not look at Alena-- _Maery,_ who, he can tell from the corner of his eye, carefully, carefully does not look at him. 

_You’ll do fine, John,_ Sally says. _Your room’s the one next to Maery’s, if you want it. If it lacks for anything, let me know._

Sally walks out into the heat. Maery looks at John over the children’s heads. _Later,_ she mouths, winking as she guides the children toward the kitchen.

John finds his room easily: a pitcher, a bowl to wash in, a cloth, a chest of drawers, a down pallet with a thin quilt. All of it quality. He sits on the bed. Sets down his pack.

Blinks.  


* 

_Later_ comes: the girls fed, Sally home unless there’s trouble, John washed, the sun lower and the heat kinder, Maery takes John by the hand, leads him to a trail through the trees. A creek runs alongside it to the north, cuts a channel through sandstone; a drop-off lurks to the south, cedar and pine scattered between rocks. 

John coughs. _That’s a nice name. Maery._

_Took it off a corpse._

_Does Sally…?_

_Knows. Appreciates that I’d kill before I’d let Anna or Gwenyth come to harm._ Pressure: Maery squeezes John’s fingers. _You’re the one gave my name to Mycroft, aren’t you?_

A smile John can’t help. _He was looking for the best shots._

_And thank you for that, John Watson. I had a good run doing his legwork after the war, the lazy bastard. You?_

_Til I didn’t._ John takes in the lines around Maery’s eyes, her mouth, the way her dress (so bright a red; he’s only seen her in black, in trousers) is damp with sweat: wonders if, like her, he seems a civilian. Safe. _Got caught once. Wasn’t much use to him after that._

Maery hums. _It was Milverton’s people caught you, I wager. They the ones did for your leg and shoulder? The way you hold yourself--you’ve been hurt._

The silence is vast, and old, and John can see no way beyond it.

 _I shot him, if it’s any consolation,_ Maery says, when she understands. _Milverton. Watched him die in his own shit. Mycroft’s orders--well. The shooting, anyway._

John swallows; a cricket sings from the branches. _You left. That’s why you changed your name._

 _Mycroft would’ve kept me on, but even killing people like Milverton gets boring. You know._ Maery winks. _I have to keep moving, but it’s nice, the peace. How is it for you? Ever get back to that sweetheart of yours?_

 _Did, yeah._ Sherlock’s a war unto himself, maybe, but one John thrills- _-thrilled_ \--to fight. _Spent seven years with him. Left him after the solstice._

 _Ah,_ Maery half-mourns, half-laughs, _and after you shattered hearts on three continents, turning people down on his account. Shame._

Crackling in the underbrush: deer, out of sight: two or three, from the sounds. _Only shame’s I stayed so long._

 _John Watson,_ Maery says, voice kind, _you’re as shit a liar as you ever were. You’d board the next boat north if you thought he’d let you save him from himself._ John’s eyebrows raise; she adds, _I smelled peppermint soap in your pack, but your own scent's oat and honey. Traveling alone, carrying someone else's soap? Sentimental of you._

John shrugs. _Could be a gift._

_Leather cord around your neck says it’s not._

_How...?_

_Locket inside your shirt,_ Maery says, gestures, grazes fabric, _close to your heart: you left him, sure, but you carry him with you. What’s in there? A likeness? A lovely curl?_

The twilight thrums with cicadas’ song _s. A feather._

 _Oh, now._ There’s understanding in her eyes, her voice. _Isn’t he an uncanny one._

John stops. Turns to her. _So am I._

Her hands are soft and gentle on his face. They smell of lavender.

And mint.

 _I know,_ Maery says. Smiles slightly. _I know you, John. Still._

Their kiss starts slow. Grows fierce. Ends with the morning: spent, tended to, they watch the stars fade, the sky turn bright.


	3. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summer, an equinox, a lake, a cedar box.

Summer moves, hot and slow. John’s skin burns, peels, mends under aloe. Stays darker, after.

Most days, there are few clouds. No rain. The grass dries up. Maery and John take the girls to the lake to cool off, teach them the plants that line the path _(that’s sunflower, the bright and beautiful one there, and we eat the seeds; that’s compass plant, pointing its leaves to the north and the south; there’s spurge, which you—no, Gwenyth,_ Maery says, takes Gwenyth’s small hand, _don’t touch, love. The blossoms raise blisters.)_

Anna, equal parts curious and fearless in ways that remind John of Sherlock, grabs great handfuls of spurge when John and Maery aren’t looking, cries out as red sores raise on her palms. John channels balm at the lakeside, brings the swelling down; Anna crawls onto Maery’s lap and hides her tearstained face against Maery’s neck.  

 _My brave girl,_ Maery says. Rocks her.

Anna sniffles. _I didn’t know blisters hurt._

_Mmm. Poor thing. There’s a lesson hard learned._

_If she’s as much like Sherlock as she seems_ , John thinks, grimaces at the anger that crackles through him, _it’s a lesson soon ignored._

He breathes. Makes and unmakes a fist. 

When Anna recovers herself and joins Gwenyth in the water, John sits at Maery’s side. Leans his leg against hers.

 _My angry love,_ Maery says. Squeezes his knee. _What is it?_

 _It’s nothing._ A breeze stirs the hair sweat-stuck to John’s forehead: there are low clouds blowing in from the southeast. _Nothing that can be helped, anyway. Not the girls’ fault._  

 _They’re sweet ones, aren’t they? Lost their father to the war, poor doves._ Maery glances at him, her blue eyes quiet and fierce. _So many ways to be lost to so many wars._

John swallows. _Suppose I’m not who I was before—well. Before._

 _Nor am I._ She takes his hand. _I’ll always see in terms of targets. Targets and the wounded they become, that’s what we know._

What she doesn’t say; what echoes in John’s mind all the same as they walk home: _what we are._

The storm rolls in as night falls, turns the sky a murky green as thunder shakes the house awake. Smoke and flame smudge the horizon: somewhere, the prairie is burning. All five of them watch through the main room’s windows; John and Maery exchange glances in the uncanny light.

 _Sounds like battle,_ say their faces.

_If it only were._

*

After the cleanup—the felled trees pulled away, the smoke-scented air blown fresh by the wind, the damaged roofs mended—the calm. The grass turned green again. The routine restored.

John clears Anna and Gwenyth’s lungs. Tends the villagers. Weeds the vegetable garden. Curses his aching leg, his aching shoulder. Trades case stories with Sally over pre-dawn tea. Finds an oak where he can pray. Learns to braid ribbons into the girls’ hair and smiles when after his first efforts Gwenyth looks in the glass and giggle-gasps _Doctor Watson, that looks silleehehehe_ while Anna lifts a single eyebrow, presses her lips thin, says _You’re a good doctor, but you’re no good at doing hair_.

Feels, in short, at home.

And longs for home.

John is not a wise man, but he’s wise enough to let the contradiction be.

*

Sunrise sets the trees aglow later each day, dims them later each evening: autumn nears.

John and Maery share a room, now. Lashed their beds together. ( _I sleep light,_ Sally says one morning, sets down her tea _. Do what you like, but do it without creeping down the hall at all hours… and maybe move the headboard further from the wall.)_ John blushes. Clears his throat. Agrees.

Sometimes he and Maery walk in the woods, listen for deer; sometimes they sit by the river and watch the sun break on its surface; sometimes they speak, hushed, under their covers. Their hands seek comfort, anchor, confirmation: _you are, I am, we are_. Maery bakes John bread, dense brown loaves sweet with honey; John worships her in bed, buys her a rose from the market every morning, promises to plant her her own when the season is right. She wears the blooms he gives her behind her ears, and the scent stays in her hair, the last thing John smells as he falls asleep.

 _You’re the best thing that could have happened to me,_ John tells her one muggy evening. They cool their feet in the lake as the girls play at mermaids. 

Maery laughs. Squeezes his hand and jostles her shoulder against his. _Sorry,_ I’m _the one happened to_ you? _Not how I remember it, sweetling._

 _Mmm._ John clears his throat. _I’m glad… we’re… here?_

 _So am I._ Maery kisses his cheek. _I haven’t stayed in one place this long since I took this name. Harder to hit a moving target, and all._

John fights goosebumps. _Think you might stay this time?_

_John._

Her tone’s apology, reproach, endearment: no, then. _When will you go?_

They watch Gwenyth splash to land, examine the smooth stones at the shore as Anna tries to catch a dragonfly skimming over the water. Maery puts her arm about John’s waist; he leans into her touch _. Spring, maybe._

Two more seasons. They have two more seasons.

How do they hold.

_And if I asked to come with you?_

_I’d ask you if you could live like I do. No hearth. No home. Always looking over your shoulder._

_Of course I could. I’d never be bored. I’d travel with you. And I’d help protect you, if you wanted._ John kisses her hair. Smells roses. _It could be good._

Maery smiles. Rests her head on John’s shoulder. _It could be very good._

The first stars come out. Maery calls the girls, helps them dry and dress themselves. On the walk home, Anna tells them of catching her dragonfly: how her hands thrilled to hold it, to feel for a moment the thrum of its wings.

*

The equinox comes and John, up as ever before the dawn, walks to his oak as the blackbirds sing from the branches. The prairie’s burnt black here, the oak’s bark charred at the base. John goes to his knees in the ashes, prays without words his gratitude, with them asks for blessings on the upcoming harvest, the village, the household.

For Maery to be safe. For no one to find her who means her harm.

For Sherlock to be safe. For him to find what he needs, somehow, now the nights outweigh the days.

For himself to be better, this time.

For his wrath to calm.

For him to long no more for war.

For so many years, he has ended his prayers this way, and still the gods—the same ones who heard him cry _please, let me live,_ who spared him when he ought to have died—leave him his longing. Leave him craving a struggle.

 _More fool me, to keep asking,_ John thinks as he gets to his feet. _Not even the gods can save us from ourselves._

He repeats the prayer all the same.

The dawn chorus singing, the sun well up, John walks to the market. Buys a deep pink rose and a small cedar box. He sets the rose in a pitcher for Maery to find when she returns with the girls, then, in their bedroom, takes the peppermint soap from the top drawer of their dresser and the locket from around his neck and sets them in the box. Latches the lid closed.

John kneels. Pushes the box along the floorboards until it rests against his pack, far beneath the bed.


	4. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sorry before the bruise blossomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear gods, but this took me forever. i'm sorry. the next chapter will, i hope, go quite a bit faster. thank you very much for waiting.

The oaks blaze orange and the birches glow yellow near the banks of the River Baker. Sherlock pulls down the screens from the windows, trades his mind _(I believe I may be able to illuminate the circumstances under which you were parted from your thumb; your friend is fine, though you’d do well to ask after his wife; Miss Sutherland, I am sorry, but you have been ill used)_ for sacks of wheat and glass jars of preserves, smokes his black clay pipe as the stars glow cold around him. He helps Molly harvest the spinach and squash; pick the late apples; ready the dead, when there are dead, to be buried.

 _Lucky he went before the ground froze,_ Molly says, thumbs a drop of yew bark tincture over the dead man’s forehead, _else he’d’ve been stuck in the shed ‘til spring. I always worry they get bored out there, the corpses._

( _Stop,_ she told him in the summer heat when he was three weeks abed with the needle, his cottage a riot of untended chores, _feeling sorry for yourself._

_I suppose you’re here because you think a mercy fuck will help?_

She slapped him. Hard. Bit her lip and slammed the door.

He was sorry before the bruise blossomed.

 _He’ll come back or he won’t,_ Molly said that night, sat on the bed, held to Sherlock’s cheek a cloth cooled in water and arnica, _but I won’t watch you kill yourself with the waiting_. He kissed her forehead, leaned into her embrace, slept the night through for the first time since the solstice.)

 _You take good care of them,_ Sherlock says, hands her herb bundles to fill out the dead man’s cheeks. _I’m sure they don’t mind the wait._

Molly smiles small. _You’re not a corpse, you know._

As good as _You're welcome._

Better.

*

The snow lies heavy in the pine boughs, and Sherlock lies under the blankets, breathes in the scent of the cedar chest they were stored in. The fire crackles. The chimney draws. The day passes like every other: knock the snow from the roof, light the stove, make the tea, on the kitchen table catalyse reactions, watch scars form on the hickory, wait for evening to compose on violin.

What Sherlock wouldn’t do for crime.

 _What object,_ he thinks, thumbs through a leather-bound volume of cases in John’s careful writing, lingers where smudges mark the path of John’s hand, _is served by this circle of--._

Knocking, slow, at the door.

For three soaring heartbeats, the certainty that John has returned.

Then, deduction: the person knocked politely--can afford to be patient--isn’t yet anxious to come in from the cold--can’t have walked far--Molly’s visiting her mentor, so not her--someone who came up from the river--someone who needs him, else they wouldn’t’ve braved the cold, but who doesn’t want their need to appear urgent:

Mycroft.

 _Idiot._ Sherlock blinks, steps into his slippers, wipes his face dry, stumbles to the door. _Theorised ahead of the evidence._

He lets Mycroft in, suppresses a shiver at the cold air, perches at the edge of his chair while Mycroft--ponderous, fur-swathed, politic somehow even in his silence--knocks the snow from his boots and hangs his coat and hat.

 _Hello, elder brother._ Sherlock taps his feet against the floor. _What could possibly have pulled you from your castle?_

 _Thank you, but no,_ Mycroft says, his expression placid as ever as he stands near the fire, _I won’t be staying long enough for tea. And I inhabit an_ estate, _Sherlock, which is, unlike a castle, perfectly suitable for one of Lord Milverton’s humbler servants._

Sherlock rolls his eyes. _Lord Milverton’s lord, more like. Please tell me the son isn’t half so wretched as the father._

_The wars have stopped, haven’t they?_

_You tell me._

Mycroft’s gaze is sharp in his soft face. _I have a favour to ask of you._

 _Can’t possibly,_ Sherlock says, sprawls across his chair. _Quite busy. Just took a client this morning._

_Did you? And yet, no tracks to or from the door, no correspondence impaled on the mantel in that ghastly manner you prefer. Do lie smarter if you must lie, Sherlock._

Damn. _Only if you promise not to bore me._

 _Please. This is the most excitement you’ve had all winter._ Mycroft stares into the fire, presses his lips together. _There is someone I need… retrieved._

Long fingers drum on fabric. _Send a messenger._

_Indeed, that is precisely what I intend to do._

Sherlock folds his legs close to his chest, wraps his arms around them. _A messenger who isn’t me._

 _I would rather prefer that it were._ Water spreads on the rug, glistens as snow melts on Mycroft's boots. _I need you to confirm that this person remains…._

_Biddable?_

Mycroft hums. _Receptive to what I might offer, were I certain that she would accept it._

The fire wants tending; Sherlock moves the grate, lays oak, watches it catch. _What are you offering, exactly?_

_To raise her from the dead._

Sherlock grimaces. _Your delusions of grandeur haven't faded, I see._

 _Go south when the snows ease,_ Mycroft says, grave as ever. _Just before the equinox should do. Don’t dawdle._

_Anticipating another war?_

_Anticipating a need for options._

_Ah,_ options. _What_ options _will she give you?_ Abruptly, Sherlock swings his legs over one arm of his chair. _Unmarked graves? Gunshots in the night?_

Mycroft's pleasant expression never falters. _Heard from John?_

The words: bullets, however indifferently fired. Sherlock’s mouth twitches. _You know I haven’t._

_I worry about you--._

_Constantly,_ Sherlock says, as Mycroft says the same. _Don’t. I’m fine._

_I don’t believe you. You look half a corpse._

Sherlock shrugs. _What does it matter? If you can bring back a killer who’s playing at civilian, you can surely raise your baby brother._ Mycroft won’t look at him, but-- _Oh. That’s exactly what you’re trying to do._

For a moment, Sherlock sees in Mycroft’s full face a boy seven years Sherlock’s senior, peering down all concern as Sherlock cries. _Will you go?_

 _Yes,_ Sherlock thinks. Says, _Where do I find your dead woman?_

_Follow the River Baker south to the first cedar grove after the river grows wide. There’s a village there. Ask for Maery Morstan. If you think she’ll want the work, call her Alena in private and ask her to meet my associate in the usual place at her earliest convenience._

Sherlock grimaces. _How little you trust me, brother mine._

Mycroft pulls his coat from its hook, makes sure that his hat covers his ears. _Better that you not know. Time for me to go--it wouldn’t do to keep the oarsmen waiting--but do look after yourself, Sherlock. Mummy will have my head if anything should happen to you._

Sherlock smiles despite himself. _Fierce, isn't she?_

 _Absolutely monstrous_. Mycroft shudders. _Good evening, little brother._

Mycroft gone, the silence come and the night fallen, Sherlock takes up his violin. Draws the bow over the strings. Lets the music sing the long and lonely wait for the thaw, for the buds waiting under the ice to brighten.


	5. Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to leave together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gahds, writing this chapter was like dropping something heavy on my foot. SO MUCH OUCH. i'm sorry. truly. augh.
> 
> almost there. one more chapter ought to do it, i think. aiming to be finished before the equinox.
> 
> oh: there's a mention of hunting for food in this chapter. dodge it as you like.
> 
> thanks for sticking around.

The rifle cracks crisp, scares for a moment the dawn chorus silent.

John squints at the fencepost where the chipped mug sat, breathes the sulphur smoke, grins. _Got it in one._

_Winged it,_ Maery grimaces, lays down the gun, carries the next target to the fencepost. _Should’ve hit it solid. Would have, in my better days. I’m too tense._

_I know a cure for that,_ John calls. Maery’s laugh carries on the spring breeze.

_How quick’s your cure?_ She walks close, hooks her thumbs beneath his waistband. _Sally leaves soon, so I’ve the girls to get home to._

She’s pale still from the months of low winter sun, hair darker at the roots, something in the lines of her face recalling the boredom of the season, the two of them turned strained and snappish until Maery hissed _Oh for the gods’ sake_ , rolled her eyes, pulled up a floorboard in their bedroom, showed John the weapons beneath, told him _Come_ , pulled him with her into the woods.

Sometimes they practised. Drew circles on dead trees. Demolished the remains of already broken dishes. Sometimes they brought down deer, butchered them in the field, carried the meat to town on their backs. Sometimes they fucked, kept their clothes on under wool blankets, looked out together at the falling snow.

Always their love, fierce and keen and blood-hot.

_As quick as you need,_ John promises, kisses the soft skin beneath her jaw, shifts against her when she moans, _as slow as you like._

After, John brushes violets and phlox from the back of Maery’s shirt. _Feel cured?_ he teases, looks amused when she stifles a smile and hits his good shoulder, not hard.

_Bad. And don’t think I’m cured just yet. You’d do well to treat me again tonight, just to be safe._

_Not sure I’m much good at safe,_ John says, surprised how serious he sounds.

Maery kisses his temple. Gets to her feet. _Just to be dangerous, then. Til later, love._

He watches her move through the young grass--her footfalls quiet, her rifle slung across her back, the target she left on the fencepost unscathed behind her--and, once she’s out of sight, walks to his oak to pray. Passes milkweed and sedge, shooting star and spiderwort, as he moves from the prairie into the trees. His mind won’t settle, shifts from how to adapt his firing stance for his bad shoulder to where they’ll go when they leave town to whether there will be fresh bread at dinner to what Maery will want to do after, and he’s eager already, imagines pushing their quilts aside and--.

He’s two steps from the base of the oak when he hears the wings beat, the claws scrabble for purchase in the ash-laced dirt.

The raven has feathers that look like dark curls. Skinny legs. Piercing black eyes. A ridge on its beak that--John aches to see it--conjures the profile etched on his heart long ago.

Sherlock stares. John stares. Somewhere, a cardinal calls.

_Did you…._ He feels unreal. The words won’t form. _Did you come here for me?_

A disdainful tilt of the head: no, then.

_Well._ John swallows. Is hurt. Relieved. Hurt. _Safe travels, Sherlock. True flights._

The raven wings away, weaves through branches, vanishes finally from view.

John, adrift, kneels.

Prays.

*

John finds the girls sitting wide-eyed on the front porch steps. He kneels to ask them what’s wrong; the sounds of a scuffle--a body hitting the wood floor, a grunt of surprise--come from inside the house.

_Nurse Maery said we weren’t to come in unless she came to get us,_ Anna says, fidgets.

_There’s a man in Nurse’s room,_ Gwenyth adds. She’s tucked against Anna’s side, her small face distressed. _But when he flew in the window, he was a bird._

John’s through the front door, down the hall, into the bedroom, before he can so much as think.

_Stop,_ Sherlock says, pinned naked to the floor, Maery cold and furious above him (violet petals still stuck to the back of her shirt, _oh_ ), Sherlock’s voice wrong, his nose swollen, his body too thin, _Mycroft sent me, I’m only here to--Alena!_

Blood on Maery’s knuckles. Blood on Sherlock’s face. Two unsparing gazes.

Maery lets him up. _Helps_ him up.

_You could at least have let me find some clothes first,_ Sherlock complains, sits at the edge of the bed, puts a hand to his face, hangs his head between his knees.

_And you could have come in the front door like a normal person,_ Maery retorts. Takes a cloth from the washbasin, moves Sherlock’s hand aside, and gently cleans his face. _What in all the hells were you thinking?_

Sherlock’s lips curve in the ghost of a grin. _I have a flair for the dramatic, or so John used to tell me._

_John?_ Maery looks from Sherlock to John, brows drawn; then, almost kindly: _Oh, you bastard._ You’re _his raven._

_And Mycroft’s brother,_ Sherlock agrees. _I’ve work to offer you._

_No need to offer,_ John says, his voice found again, somehow, though watching one of his loves wash the blood from the other’s face is--surreal, impossible, happening, _we aren’t interested. We’ve our own plans._

Maery’s eyes meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s eyes meet Maery’s.

_What kind of work,_ Maery says, and John knows he’s lost.

*

_Tomorrow morning._ John’s stomach feels leaden. Maery’s warm in his arms, her back to his chest.

Maery nods. _Sally knows._

They were supposed to leave together.

The moon’s near full, floods the room through the thin curtain.

John swallows. _The girls will miss you._

Can’t admit, _I’ll miss you._

_The first roses,_ John says instead, _the ones I planted for you. They won’t bloom til summer._

Maery squeezes his arm. Leans against him. _They’ll be gorgeous,_ she says, her voice shaking, _and I’ll--I’ll love them. Even if I don't see them._

He holds her as she cries, almost silent, nuzzles the back of her neck, blinks his own tears down his cheeks. _You don’t have to--you could stay._

_I can’t._ Maery brings John’s hand to her lips. Kisses his knuckles, his palm. _I love you, John, so much, but I’ve missed--I’ve missed it, the war. You know._

They each have their wars.

Don’t they.

_When it’s over,_ John manages. _When you’re through fighting. You find me. Come back. Promise me._

Maery breathes deep until her voice comes even. _And if I come back gods-know-when? If you’ve wed another, or you’re with Sherlock, or you’re alone and content? What then, love?_

_Maery,_ John says; then, so soft, lips to the shell of her ear, _Alena._ He shivers. _I’ll always--I’ll always want to try. With you. So. Come back. Someday. Please._

More words, he thinks, than he believed he would find.

_John,_ Maery whispers, turns to him, moves with him, their touches grief-heavy, familiar, the sad twined close with the sweet.

Sleep seems impossible, after. It finds him all the same.

_When I’m through fighting,_ Maery murmurs, kisses John’s cheek as he drifts away, _if there’s life in me, love, I'll come to you. I swear it._

*

Come morning Maery shoulders her pack, hugs the girls as they cry against her shirt, shakes Sally’s hand, gives John one fierce embrace, one kiss.

Is gone.

The ache in John’s chest is unbearable.

_Take the day,_ Sally says, rests a hand on his shoulder. _I’ll bring the girls with me._

On the quilt that’s his alone again there’s a loaf of his favourite bread, a single bullet.

No: an empty casing.

No: a casing hiding a note in Maery’s hand, the paper curled, nestled in the brass tube.

_What I swore: I remember._  
 _Until then, my love.--AGRA_

John slips the bread into his pack, nestles the casing in the box beneath the bed, walks through the prairie to the forest.

Picks a violet to press in a book.


	6. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re still angry._ Sherlock’s hands go to his face, feel the familiar contours. _I could taste it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearly six months for six short chapters.
> 
> oops. 
> 
> thanks for reading. <3
> 
> heads up: there's non-graphic but still intense discussion of trauma in this one. skip as is good for you.

After a walk to calm him, John grimaces as he climbs the cedar steps to the constabulary, hears Sherlock before he sees him: _How on earth can you check his alibi without taking soil samples from his boots? You'll at least need to know the last time there was significant rainfall in this area. Because of the footprints, obviously! Who writes up your case records? Well,_ find _someone!_  
  
Sherlock hovers in front of Sally's desk. Sally looks as though she would have punched him by now if Maery hadn't already bloodied his nose and bruised his face. Anna and Gwenyth sit close on a bench, swing their legs, watch wide-eyed as though Sherlock is a mummer at a fair.  
  
John clears his throat, holds up a hand in greeting. _I came to get the girls._  
  
 _John._ Sally stands. _The girls can stay, but this one just turned up. I was about to see him out. Care to do the honors?_  
  
 _Come on,_ John says, crooks a finger, when Sherlock stays put takes him by one elbow and walks him toward the door.  
  
 _I was helping!_ Sherlock insists, struggles in John’s grip.  
  
 _I really don't think you were. Out._ John clutches the backside of Sherlock’s ill-fitting clothes (borrowed from John’s room, in the sense that Sherlock took them without asking) and half-guides, half-carries him down the steps.  
  
Sherlock stumbles after John lets go. Lands on his hands and knees with a grunt, rises, brushes dirt from his trousers. His voice shakes as he strides away. _Is there no end to your willingness to humiliate me?_  
  
 _My--._ John jogs to catch up. Shades his eyes against the sun. _You were humiliating yourself! And honestly, Sherlock, what have I ever done to--._  
  
Sherlock whirls. He looks as close to tears as John has ever seen him. _You_ left _me! How can you fail to…._  
  
Bloodied, bruised, awkward in the wrong clothes, far from home, staring soon down the barrel of the brightest season: Sherlock is--is--.  
  
 _Can I,_ John says. So quiet. Gestures to Sherlock’s face.  
  
Sherlock stills.  
  
Nods.  
  
When they reach Sally’s house Sherlock sits expressionless at the kitchen table as John draws his chair close.  
  
 _I’ll try to be gentle,_ John says, lands the lightest touches he can on Sherlock’s bruised cheeks, nose, eyes, as Sherlock’s lips twitch, _but the skin’s tender, so just… if it hurts, tell me. I can try something else._  
  
John channels: balm, arnica, too much tannin and gunpowder. Watches the swelling subside, the bruises turn from black to purple-blue to green to yellow to pale, unmarred skin.  
  
 _You’re still angry._ Sherlock’s hands go to his face, feel the familiar contours. _I could taste it._  
  
John grimaces. _Sorry._  
  
Sherlock stares at the kitchen table, blank. _As am I._  
  
John wants to reach for him.  
  
Can’t.  
  
Says, instead, for no reason he could put to words, _My leg._  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
 _It._ John shifts, ignores his racing heart. Tells himself to play at being Sherlock, to leave feeling for fact. _I was captured. Not from the army. Working for your brother. He had me pulled from service, made it look likely I’d died in battle. Gods know there wasn’t much to go on after the cannons--anyway._  
  
He can’t look at Sherlock, can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him. In the front yard the crabapple blooms tremble with the breeze.  
  
 _Your brother sent me--well. I did a few jobs for him, but this one--I was to take care of Milverton._ The spring night, the crickets’ song, the damp grass underfoot, feel immediate, here, now. John’s hands clench the edge of the table. _I was caught. Bound. Tried to escape._  
  
Sherlock’s silence fills the room.  
  
John bites his lip.  
  
Goes on.  
  
 _Milverton had a--someone worked for him. Who could--I didn’t know it was possible, but he could wound by--_ John lays one palm flat on the tabletop.-- _by touch. Like I do with healing._  
  
Two deep breaths. Nausea.  
  
 _So that--that was the leg. I tried to escape again, once I could walk. Didn’t get far. They tied my arms, my legs, stood me against a wall. Shot me. Missed my heart. That was the shoulder._  
  
His skin still can’t stand the feel of rope.  
  
He’s never said.  
  
 _The servant girl Milverton sent to bury me was Mycroft’s. She dressed the wound, tied me to a saddle, took me to one of Mycroft’s safe houses. I caught a fever. Burnt up for half a year. They were sure they’d lose me._  
  
The curtain at his window had been white and gauzy, had been pulled aside when he was lucid enough to watch the leaves turn, the snow fall, as the healers had tried to cool his fever, mend his wounds. Remedies, flavoured: birch bark, currants, acorn paste; the pain when they turned him to stave off bedsores; the hallucinations that had made sleeping seem no different than waking.  
  
 _When I was strong enough to leave,_ John says, wills the old tastes from his mouth, _I came to you._ The writer in him craves an ending that resonates, that sings, but he can’t find one, can’t _think_ , so he nods. Presses his lips together. _So. Now you know._  
  
His hands are in Sherlock’s. He hadn’t noticed.  
  
Sherlock brackets John’s knees with his own, leans forward until their foreheads touch. His too-short sleeves slide up his arms. _Come home._  
  
The closeness feels natural, a habit from another life. _It can’t be like it was._  
  
 _No._ Sherlock’s thumbs move over John’s. _It can’t._  
  
 _The needle?_  
  
 _Less often than before._  
  
John nods. It’s enough. _The things you said?_  
  
 _Were… not kind._ Sherlock’s fingertips graze, briefly, John’s cheek. _Emotions are--your department, John, you know that, but I--I am sorry._  
  
 _Sherlock,_ John thinks, won’t say, _you only_ want _to be cold;_ says instead, braced against the answer, _Maery._  
  
Sherlock swallows. Sighs. _She’s clever. Asked questions that weren’t tedious. Threw a damned good right cross._  
  
John smiles, brief and honest. _And if she comes back, someday?_  
  
(If I were with you both.)  
  
A low hum. _I haven’t enough data, John._  
  
(Can’t make bricks without clay.)  
  
 _Right._ John sits up, keeps his hands in Sherlock’s. _There's a lot we don't--but would you... you would try?_  
  
The late afternoon light catches the lines in Sherlock’s face. He looks at once older than John remembers and so, so young, the haughty detective that John once courted. _Yes._  
  
John stands; Sherlock hurriedly follows, and John rests a calming hand on his arm. _All right, then._  
  
Sherlock tilts his head. _All right?_  
  
 _I’ll talk with Sally. Tell the girls. Stay til the new healer and the new nurse come. After that…_ Sherlock’s skin is warm beneath the soft, thin cotton of his borrowed shirt. John squeezes.  _Home._  
  
The next morning, a raven flies away north. John, pendant ’round his neck, casing in his pocket, goes to his oak. Kneels. Prays for both his loves, for all their journeys.  
  
*  
  
Spring again, three years on.  
  
The morning air’s humid. John crouches, pulls up the ruined board, curses at the damaged subfloor.  
  
 _Care to explain why you had acid in our bedroom?_  
  
Sherlock, lazing in the living room, calls, _No._  
  
 _Arse._ John grins. Looks down through dust and dark.  
  
Sees a glimmer of light on metal.  
  
 _Gods._ John lays flat, reaches til his fingers close around the claw. _You’ll never guess what I found._  
  
 _You didn’t._ Sherlock bursts into the bedroom, kneels beside John: _Oh._  
  
The hammer, dirt-dusted, eleven years gone, lies between them.  
  
John sits up. _I was so angry._  
  
 _Not for long, as I recall._  
  
A sidelong smirk that makes Sherlock blush. John winks. Sobers. Points at the hammer. _Think we might keep it on the mantle?_  
  
They’ve had neither word nor sign from Maery. Two years since her last report to Mycroft: she’s missing: something’s wrong.  
  
But missing isn’t gone.  
  
John has--is--evidence.  
  
 _John,_ Sherlock says, understands, tries to keep his voice gentle, _in all probability, she’s not…._ He pauses. Blinks. _Oh. Sentiment._  
  
John nods. _Predictable. Sorry._  
  
 _No, it’s…._ Sherlock’s hand lights on John’s shoulder. Tentative. Soothing. _Let’s._  
  
They stand before the mantle side by side, arms grazing. Sherlock sets the hammer between the skull and the knife.  
  
 _To us,_ John says, holds Sherlock close.  _To all that might come back._


End file.
